


I left your importance unspoken along with my heart's promises

by MatildaSwan



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Pippa is Ride or Die for Hecate and always has been, heavy on the content warnings: details inside, it's not graphic depictions but there's still violence I put tag to be safe, pre-ship hicsqueak, when they were at school
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 03:38:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13309623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatildaSwan/pseuds/MatildaSwan
Summary: But for all she knew underneath the pink and shine and lightness of her best friend that Pippa had a spine of steel, Hecate never knew she had talons of diamonds to match.Not till todayBecause today is the day those silly, bullying witches in their year have finally gone too far, and tipped Pippa right over the edge.





	I left your importance unspoken along with my heart's promises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hihoplastic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/gifts).



> I had some feelings about Pippa 'ride or die and def decked someone for Hecate's honour' Pentangle and then @amillionmillionvoice's went and made it worst. I love you and this is your fault. 
> 
> Shout out to the beautiful Arwen for betaing this Hectic Yikes of Angst w a Happy (enough) ending.
> 
> CW: death mention for Hecate's mother+references to funeral, implied domestic violence re Hecate's extremely stoic upbringing, fairly hectic school yard bullying, Pippa threatening some emotional/psychological abuse at ppl who just refuse to leave Hecate alone (she's actually terrifying like Content Warning: Pippa knows how to Fck Ppl Up), physical violence. Also, hair cutting w/out owner's consent.

Hecate loves her hair; it reminds her of her Mother: dark curls like spun silk shining in the sunlight, and all the more striking in moonbeams, gleaming raven-bright in the night. 

She used to wear it like her mother, too, when she was younger; she loved being recognised whenever they were together. 

‘This is my daughter, Hecate,’ she’d always say as Hecate stood as polite and still as she could manage while strangers stared at her. 

‘Of course she is,’ they’d always say, ‘Of course she’s a Hardbroom. With hair like that, it’s little surprise.’ 

Hair tumbling down around her shoulders, curls against her cheeks and long down her neck. To highlight her eyes; to hide her face.

Her father had made her plait it for the funeral. Insisted she kept herself neat and tidy, a mark of respect on the most solemn, second most heartbreaking day of Hecate’s life. 

‘So much like your mother,’ they kept repeating as she stood, ramrod and rigid, to welcome distant relative after family friend to the wake. 

She’d kept her hair plaited away after that, braided the strands the whole way around her head in a crown of curls, wrapping it tight around her scalp to keep all her thoughts inside. 

Her father had agreed, once he’d recognised her new habit for what it was, a fortnight after they scattered the ashes. He thought it becoming of a young witch; she’d taken the smallest of praises to heart and kept his words close. 

Neither of them mentioned she looked less like her mother with every passing day. 

The braid thickened with age, while Hecate stayed as rakish and thin as ever, until it was thick enough to pull tight and sit on top of her head and hold itself there. She liked it like that, out of the way: no mess, very little fuss, and it stayed where it ought to. Nothing else in her life did: not her thoughts (always too fast when she was trying to concentrate, always too loud when she was trying to sleep), not her familiar (she loves Morgana dearly, but she does keep sneaking away for naps at the most inconvenient of times), nor her dearest friend Pippa (always bustling in when she’s supposed to be somewhere else, never in her room where Hecate can find her when she needs her), and not her things. 

Indeed, her things rarely stay where they’re supposed to. 

She has wards on her door to keep people out: memorised the strongest incantation she could find after someone had broken in their first term—the very same day Pippa had decreed Hecate her _very_ best friend in the middle of mess hall during breakfast—and stolen her hat and broom. She found them that night, near the lower floor dungeons: out of bounds with the promise of a month’s detention for any student found loitering. 

(Little did they all know it was not, as they had suspected, where Miss Briarthorn grew the more unsavoury potions ingredients under a careful, magicked hand, but simply where Miss Stewart cultivated the bulk of the school’s food supply, inside a perfectly maintained indoor greenhouse free of frost and pest and hobgoblins. She knows, now, having hidden herself away when the scurry of snooping teachers had frightened her into the restricted section, where she’d fallen asleep in a bed of cabbages before the coast had cleared.)

She knows they keep trying, from time to time—both the spells and Morgana tell her so—but they never get past her magic: so well cast, too soundly spelt. There’s a reason everyone knows she’s the cleverest witch in their year, just like she knows she’s the most hated too. Because even with all that protection, her own power—respected and maybe even feared on occasion (she has a runaway cauldron explosion the first day she’d bled to thank for that: her mother had long passed by the time her first cycle arrived and Hecate hadn’t known it would matter to her magic so much)—even with the two-edged sword that is Pippa’s affection for her—which keeps the other girls pliant when she’s there and makes them twice as spiteful when she’s not—her things still manage to go missing. 

It’s usually in the library, when the other girls come over to talk to Pippa. They always chatter so, even in the quiet sections, and Hecate can never concentrate. So she leaves them to it and takes a break to stretch her legs and her arms—her wrist aches from writing so much, more these days than ever before—and when she comes back, her papers are never where they’re meant to be. 

She knows they steal her notes, little good it will do them, as if her writing on paper might help them perfect their own craft. Of course, none of them realise it is just the start: none of them have the discipline needed to become truly great, _truly_ brilliant. None of them have the drive, the care, the _want,_ to become powerful enough to master the Craft with the respect it deserves. 

No one except Pippa. 

It’s what makes Pippa special, what makes Hecate want to be her friend as much as Pippa wants to be hers, for all they appear to be binary opposites: a red giant last in the longest of lines and a new blue with centuries left to burn, shining bright and millions of lightyears apart. They have the same spark, in their heart, mind, _soul._ It’s what makes Hecate determined; it’s what makes Pippa fierce. 

But for all she knew underneath the pink and shine and lightness of her best friend that Pippa had a spine of steel, Hecate never knew she had talons of diamonds to match. 

Not till today. 

She stares down at the inches of long, darks curls in her hands. Feels the absence of their weight on her head, on her shoulder, in her heart, and doesn’t know what to do with herself. The giggles and snorts of her classmates ring in her ears; she barely hears them, too focused on the locks of hair in her hand. 

_My mother loved my hair,_ she thinks as her hands shake, as her sight blurs. A few wisps fall through her fingers to the floor, even further out of reach. _She always loved my hair._

Hecate doesn’t know what to do with herself.

Pippa, on the other hand, knows exactly what to do with everyone else.

She rounds on Winna—always the kindest to Pippa, always the nastiest when she thinks no one is looking—and hisses right in her face, ‘How _dare_ you.’

Winna scoffs. ‘It was just supposed to be a joke! It would have been fine if she hadn’t freaked out—she needs to lighten up, learn to laugh.’ She shrugs, flaps her hands; palms both Hecate and Pippa off, along with the consequences of her actions. ‘It’s her own fault for taking everything so seriously.’

Hecate sniffs; she can’t fault them, she does takes things seriously. But she’s never in her life understood how that could be a bad thing, why it should single her out for this kind of treatment (sometimes she wonders if there’s something twisted inside her, something she won’t ever be able to undo: a knot people like Winna can see and know how to make hurt). She doesn’t know what she’s done to deserve this. 

Pippa’s top lip sneers. She squares her shoulders and pulls her powers in tight. The air changes, shifts, begins to crackle; a few ears pop, and the corridor fills with disgruntled humming. Pippa waits until the hall is silent to speak. When she does, her voice is frosted sharp:

‘The code _clearly_ forbids the removal of _any_ part of another witch’s anatomy, be it arm, leg, or _hair of head_.And any self-respecting witch, any witch worth respecting _at all_ , would know better.’ She glares at Winna, who wilts: finally gauging just how serious this is—damage caused to another witch—and just how seriously Pippa is taking this. Everyone else, save Hecate herself, has the decency to hold their breath. ‘Any decent witch would have _done_ better.’

‘Oh, come on! There’s no need to make a mound out of a molehill,’ Winna argues indignantly. ‘It was an accident.’

‘No it wasn’t! It never has been,’ Pippa screams, stamping her foot on the floor like a petulant child; it would be laughable, pitiful even, if the look on her face didn’t make it one of the most terrifying displays Hecate has ever seen in her life, including her father. She knows, maybe even before Pippa herself knows, what comes next.

The crack of Pippa’s fist against Winna’s jaw rings out in the corridor; spit and blood flies from her mouth, through the air, falling onto Alice’s shoe. A spot stains the yellow of her socks, still pulled high and within regulation. Small rules they can follow, it would seem, just not fundamental principles of the Craft.

The corridor inhales, sharp and shocked, before shrinking to occupy less space than it had a moment ago. Pippa holds her ground: breathing heavily, chest heaving, her bloodied fist still clenched but held down by her hip. Five feet and three inches of pure, seething, _quiet_ rage. 

She takes a step forward, to where Winna’s stumbled back—her hand cradling her smashed up cheek, her eyes wide and frightened—and crowds her towards the wall. The throng parts quicker than the Far Seas and twice as quiet as Pippa backs Winna up against the stonework. 

‘Now, I want you to listen carefully,’ she starts, clear and precise, sharp tongue and dull hatred. ‘If you _ever_ come near Hecate, it won’t just be your face that breaks. No, no, I’ll do much worse than that.’ She pulls back half a foot, lets Winna sag slightly; watches, tilting her head as if curious, before smiling: bright and sparkling and _terrifying._

The rest of the year shivers. 

‘You know what, I won’t even hurt you, not really,’ she clarifies with an absent shrug. ‘I’ll just crawl inside your mind and burrow around until I’ve found every tiny, pathetic, _pitiful_ thing you’ve ever held dear, and I will _ruin_ every single one. I will tear you to pieces from the inside out, and, if you’re really lucky, I’ll let you hate me afterwards.’ 

Winna stares, wide-eyed and shaking. Pippa turns towards the rest of the year: they all wilt beneath her gaze. ‘The same goes for _any_ of you who even _think_ —and I’ll know, I promise you that—of hurting Hecate, ever again.’

‘Have I made myself clear?’ she asks as she turns back to Winna, bright and irritable and irrepressible. She gets a nod in return and Pippa grins, wolfish and feral. ‘Good girl,’ she praises with a light slap to Winna’s cradled hand, before finally stepping away.

She back at Hecate’s side, the rest of the corridor still frozen stiff, when a teacher finally rounds the corner.

Miss Chanton stops when she sees the gathering, and frowns at them all. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Well actually, there’s been a bit of a mishap,’ Pippa explains brightly, every bit the witch she was yesterday, an hour ago, three minutes ago, underneath it all: the witch she actually is, the one they already knew without knowing just how vast she could be. ‘A spell gone wrong cut Hecate’s hair before backfiring on Winna. I think she should probably see the nurse.’

‘Oh, you poor dear,’ she coos at Winna, hand on her shoulder guiding her up the hall. ‘Come on, let’s get that seen too.’ 

Alice rushes along behind her, feet finally unsticking from the floor, leaving the rest of their year still ogling Pippa. Hecate isn’t much better, staring at Pippa with wide eyes, a racing heart, her breathing faster than it has a right to be. She’s not scared, though she wonders if she ought to be, but this is Pippa, who’s nothing at all like her father. This is _Pippa_ , who taught her break time is for recharging, that birthdays are for celebrating, that the best cure for a night terror is simple being held once it’s passed. Who barges into her room with barely a breath of warning but never, ever ignores Hecate when she asks for something, be it a book or a snack or space. Her friend, her _best_ friend, the only one witch in their year who ever interested her. Who just ran headfirst into the whole of their year for her.

Hecate doesn’t know what she’s done to deserve this.

She opens her mouth, to try and talk some sense into the day, but her eyes slide over Pippa’s shoulder to the audience they still have. She shuts it again. 

Pippa turns her head to glare at them. ‘Haven’t you all got places to be?’ she snaps, and away they all scurry, a few of them tripping over their shoelaces in their hurry. 

She turns back to Hecate, smiling like she always does. Reaches out to curl Hecate’s hands closed again; the hair itches at her palms. ‘Come on, let’s go find a reattaching spell.’ She ushers Hecate down the corridor, now cleared save for the two of them.

Hecate trails behind, slowly shuffling her feet and beyond bewildered. She tries to piece together her thoughts as they take the stairs down a floor. In the end, all she can think is, ‘Why?’

Pippa barely looks over her shoulder. ‘Because I know how much you love your hair, of course.’

Hecate trips over her own feet, world shifting out from underneath her. She gets her bearings at the foot of the stairwell. ‘No, I mean, Why did you do... _that_?’

‘What? Oh, um.. right, well. You’re my friend,’ she says simply, and Hecate is surprised it doesn’t come with a shrug. ‘And they shouldn’t treat you like that. I mean, I shouldn’t have spoken like that either, but frankly I’m fed up with it all. I know you don’t talk about it, Hiccup, but I’ve got eyes. I know they’re only nice to you when I’m there.’

Hecate stops short in the alcove nearest the library door, unsettled earth shifting beneath her again. She sits down heavily on the love-seat. ‘You, you know?’

‘Course,’ Pippa replies with a small frown, sitting down beside Hecate. ‘Why do you think I can’t stand them?’

Hecate stares at the ground, fists balled tight and itching, trying to catch up. If things could just _stop_ she might be able to make sense of it all, of _any_ of it. ‘But, you’re always so nice…’

Pippa snorts, inelegant and endearing. ‘That’s not me being nice, Hiccup, that’s civility. I don’t like them, but I’m not rude. And we’re all stuck here till graduation, and some of them are actually alright, I thought it best if they rest didn’t despise both of us. Though I suppose I’ve hashed that plan up.’ She sucks her teeth, sitting back to cross her leg over the other, flicks her nails. ‘Oh well,’ she sighs, wiggling her fingers: the pink enamel shines bright in sunbeams streaming in through the window. ‘Guess we’ll just have to sleep one eye open from now on.’

_Sleep with me,_ Hecate thinks without warning. _There’s safety in numbers, if we shared…_ she tries to reason, if only to herself, but that’s already too much, too close to the thoughts she’s been having recently, of Pippa warm and soft and beside her. 

She tries to distract herself, to think about what Pippa’s actually said; realises Pippa has been been looking out for her, looking _after_ her, all this time. And all she’s asked in return is Hecate’s friendship: the one she’d recently started wondering if Pippa might be better off without. Started wondering because of Winna, and Alice, and their petty, spiteful insinuations and pathetic school yard gossip. _Never again._

‘Thank you,’ Hecate breathes out, solemn and no where near heavy enough to hold all the weight of what she feels. Pippa looks at her with a tiny, happy, perfectly contented smile, and Hecate feels het stomach flutter. ‘I mean, it was nothing I’d have ever asked you to do,’ she blurts out in a rush (Pippa thinks, _you’d never need to_ ). ‘But, thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Pippa replies, her smile stretching and all the more perfect; Hecate smiles back. ‘But enough about that,’ Pippa bristles before reaching out, pulling gently at the sliced curl now hanging free from Hecate’s braid. ‘Let’s fix this, shall we?’

Hecate nods and Pippa drops the curls; it brushes against her cheek as she stands and trails along behind Pippa, walking into the library. She has the mind to start researching, but it still can’t help wondering what Pippa — kind, clever, _ferocious_ Pippa — would be like if they weren’t just friends.


End file.
